


King Wash

by SueDeeNimh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Laundromats, M/M, Sleepy Sex, Spiders, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueDeeNimh/pseuds/SueDeeNimh
Summary: Hunting a giant arachnid monster can get messy, who knew?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 142
Collections: 2020 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge





	King Wash

**Author's Note:**

> I was super glad I got Phoenix1966's [awesome art](https://phoenix1966.livejournal.com/38561.html) for this year's SPN Reversebang, but then writer's block hit me like a rogue truck and I barely made it to the minimum. Thank you Phoenix, and thank you mod BeelikeJ, for being so patient with me!

Dean yanked on the rope around his wrists harder in hopes _something_ would come loose, but there wasn't enough slack yet—it was going to take another ten minutes at least to work it loose enough, and that was ten minutes he didn't have, with the arachnoid bearing down on him across the room, drooling hungrily at the nice big mouthful of Dean it was about to take.

"You've got no idea the world of hurt that's going to come down on you for this," Dean threatened, but it wasn't listening to him, and…

A sound from above! Footsteps walking through the kitchen Dean knew was right above this butcher's basement. The tread was heavy and light at the same time—boots, but someone accustomed to walking quietly in them. Someone with a long, measured stride. Nearly as recognizable as a face, to Dean, though the monster was cocking its head, puzzled, trying to figure out what an uninvited guest could possibly be doing in its home. But it had been over-confident enough not to gag him. "Down in the basement, Sam!" Dean called out. "Watch the big spider-thing!"

The noise of Sam's boots vanished as he stepped even more carefully, and the big freaky spider-human cross abandoned its plans to chow down on Dean in favor of rushing back to the stairs and climbing up to the ceiling, poised to drop-attack on anyone coming down them. Dean redoubled his efforts to pull free from the ropes tying him to the chair before this hunt could go any more wrong.

Sam came down the stairs before he got free, though, and sure enough the arachnoid dropped on him, but Sam was ready with his machete and split the creature open as it fell, snarling as it gushed disgusting spider-innard juices all over him. It pressed its torso close, trying to inject him with the same paralytic venom that had gotten Dean tied up here in the first place, but Sam twisted their combined weight around and _heaved,_ every muscle straining in the dim light, and it fell over the railing instead, stinger out of range.

"Behead it before it heals," Dean yelled urgently. He hadn't expected just how fast it could heal, before. He _hated_ being trapped and helpless while Sam fought without him. It was the worst feeling. He needed to be out there protecting Sam, not stuck on the sideline.

Sam didn't bother to nod, just yanked the machete free and swung it again, this time deep into the neck of the monster. The angle over the stair railing was too awkward, though, and he didn't get it all the way through. Dean could hear the thick meaty sound of the blade getting stuck again, in the vertebrae or exoskeletion or whatever it had. Maybe both.

Sam used his free hand to vault easily over the railing from halfway down and landed easily a few feet away, twisting the machete loose in the process. His next swing took the nasty-looking insectoid head off cleanly, and then it was all over but the thrashing, dying limbs everywhere.

"Dean! You okay?" Sam yelled back, finally.

"Fine!" Dean said, wrenching at the ropes with a final twisting effort and getting free—finally. "I had him," he added casually, just to keep up appearances.

Sam swept him with a doubtful look, which took in Dean's still-bound torso and legs and probably the gruesome dried-out sacks of bones that remained of the spider's last eight victims, but he just snorted instead of arguing. "Let's get out of here."

Dean eyed the spider guts all over Sam's shirt, jacket, and jeans. "Sure. The sooner we can get that gunk off of you, the better. Little help untying me?"

Sam moved towards him, but his eyes narrowed. "You know, I had to go to a lot of trouble tracking your ass down to this shithole, and if you can't do anything but complain—"

Dean shook one leg free as soon as Sam loosened the ropes on it, and eagerly started picking at the other one. "Not my fault that gunk stinks, dude," he said automatically, before he could think better of it.

"What gunk?" Sam picked up a handful of slime and smeared it down the front of Dean's shirt. "You mean this gunk?"

Dean yelped and stood up as best he could with the chair still hanging off him. "Oh, you think you're funny?"

Sam clearly thought he was hilarious. He was going _down,_ Dean was going to make sure of it.

* * *

* * *

Their motel didn't have its own washer, so they pulled in at the nearest old-style laundromat in town and jimmied the doors open in the dark. They were the only people moving on the streets at this hour, after all the bars had sent their patrons home but before even the earliest risers started going about their days. It was just as well; the stuff covering Sam wasn't blood, exactly, but it might look close enough in the dark.

"C'mon, let's get that stuff in the wash before it starts to rot," Dean had regained his cheer, already shucking his own besmirched shirts straight into the nearest machine, along with a duffle of stale clothes from the backseat.

Sam took too long getting out of his clothes, so Dean stepped in close to help him, rolling the edges of Sam's layers of jacket and shirts to keep the gunk from getting on either of their newly exposed torsos. Sam's hair had somewhat miraculously avoided the splash, even—or else Sam would be insisting on a shower right now and making Dean violate the after-hours laundromat on his own.

"Easy does it, just let me…" There, button-ups off and into the washer, that just left Sam's tee, less slimed than the outer layers but still with an ugly, lumpy stripe down the middle. Dean tucked up the bottom hem and rolled it to keep the mess from spreading. "Up."

Sam obediently raised his arms, swaying a little—tired now that the adrenaline had crashed, and it was the middle of the night, after all. "I was worried about you," he muttered, because of course Sam always said the stuff you weren't supposed to say out loud.

"Nothing to worry about, a nasty little spider like that," Dean said lightly. "I’m fine, you’re fine, the inhabitants of this podunk town are fine, thanks to us.”

“Thanks to me, really. You just sat on your ass,” Sam needled, starting to grin a little.

“Yeah, sure, just making sure you didn’t forget how to track and gut a creepy-crawly after I bailed your ass out the last three hunts,” Dean shoved the last few begrimed clothes into the washer and went to feed quarters into the soap dispenser.

Sam, who could have been getting the soap while Dean loaded the machine, sat on the bench and watched instead. “Uh-huh.”

“You just gonna admire the view?” Dean struck a hip-cocked pose, flashing Sam an exaggerated whole-face wink.

Sam smiled and didn't look away. "Pretty much."

"Yeah, well, you're a doofus," Dean muttered, but he couldn't help grinning. "I'm not doing you in a laundromat when we have a perfectly good bed in a room two blocks away."

"That's okay," Sam said. "I can wait." He took his jeans off and tossed them so they landed half in, half out of the washing machine. "Oops, I better get those."

Dean was already in arm's reach of the pants, but Sam didn't ask—he just wanted an excuse to get up close and personal with Dean. Somehow in the process of making sure both pant legs were in and the load weight was distributed fairly, Dean also got brushed up against, groped, and nibbled on. "You seriously want to head back to the motel, now, in your boxers?" Dean finally got the washer started and turned to focus on Sam. "Because I know for a fact there aren't any clean clothes in the car to change into."

Sam shrugged and stepped back. "We could. This stuff's going to take half an hour at least. And nobody's out at this hour."

"Somebody could break in and steal it," Dean said stubbornly.

"Somebody _else_ could break into this tiny laundromat in the middle of the night, you mean?" Sam rolled his eyes. "There's nobody around."

"There's nothing wrong with waiting an hour to get back to an actual bed and having sex there, either," Dean pointed out. Sam always _said_ he could wait, and watching him slowly go nuts trying was one of Dean's favorite things.

"Fine. Can you grab my laptop from the car, if we're just waiting here?"

"I thought there was nobody around to see you in your boxers," Dean smirked.

Sam gave a huffy sigh worthy of a teenager and shuffled out the doors to the Impala. But he did glance around, just to make sure there was nobody around, Dean noticed.

* * *

* * *

Sam was making his phone into a hotspot so he could go through the case research one more time to make sure they hadn't missed anything. His feet were propped on an empty laundry cart and his brow was furrowed. He had another cart wheel-jammed against the dryers to lean precariously back on. "I've only found missing person reports for five people here, going back twelve years. How many remains did you count in that basement?"

"Eight, at least." Dean frowned. "Damn. Check for wallets when we go back to burn the place tomorrow—well, later today?"

"We'd better," Sam sighed. "Hey, maybe we could just not burn it."

"You know if cops find that kind of crap, they have a whole shit-ton of unanswerable questions…" Dean started, a purely habitual response, but then he frowned. "Actually, fuck it. Anyone who hasn't noticed the world almost ending by now isn't going to change their mind because of a few giant spider victims."

"Might as well let somebody else notify families that isn't us," Sam agreed. Plenty of times they had to skip town too fast to notify anybody that their missing loved ones were really actually dead, and the rest of the time it was a task so thankless—"killed by monsters" or "mysterious circumstances" didn't really offer much peace of mind—that they looked for any excuse not to do it.

"Speaking of the world ending," Dean said.

Sam shrugged one side of his body, carefully, so the laundry cart didn't move under him. "It's always ending, seems like."

"Anything you still got on your bucket list? I mean, other than going one more round with yours truly?"

Sam considered, and a soft smile crossed his face. "You know, not really. We can finish up here, go back to the room, go to bed, and wake up in the morning and do it all over again. That's not nothing."

Dean knew that Sam had given up his old dreams of academia, but it was still hard for him to believe it. "You don't want to, I don't know, wait for people to finish figuring out about the supernatural and run for President?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You have to be at least thirty-five in order to run for President...oh, wow, I _could!_ Huh, do you think Dad stashed my birth certificate anywhere?"

"I could forge you one, if you need it," Dean offered.

"Nah, I think there's a state office that keeps records of all that stuff," Sam said. "You know what though, you could forge me a college degree."

"Oh, sure," Dean half-laughed. "You know they check up on that stuff if you run for President. Pretty sure."

"Damn," Sam sighed. "There go my dreams of public office."

Dean waited for Sam to look pensive or wistful, but instead he just kept browsing on the laptop, oblivious to Dean's attention. "Hey, you think this arachnoid had a relative over in Buchanan? The timescale between those two disappearances just about fits the pattern we've got here."

* * *

It was well over an hour later when they got back to the motel room, clean clothes in a duffle bag except for a clean tee each that was all the concession to modesty they were willing to bother with. Well, and Sam put his jeans back on. Just not his belt or boots. He was yawning more frequently and obviously planning to get out of the clothes as soon as they were behind closed doors again.

"Home sweet home," Dean said, like he often did in random motel rooms they'd never seen before and never would again. In a sense, all the places on the road were their home.

"I'm so ready to crash," Sam said, dropping their stuff on the floor and stumbling into the bathroom.

Dean didn't say anything for the moment, savoring the moment. Even if Sam had forgotten the promised sex, _he_ hadn't. He shucked his shirt for the second time, and this time his jeans and boxers went with it. Then he arranged himself on Sam's bed and waited.

He heard the shower run, and briefly pondered the desirability of having one himself, but the risk of Sam falling asleep on him if he gave him half a chance was too great. He wasn't the one who'd gotten slimed, after all.

Dean blinked the sleep out of his eyes when Sam finally emerged—he wasn't about to admit to being tired too. On the bright side, Sam was naked too, except for a towel. Good. That saved effort.

"Wait, seriously? At four in the morning?" Sam complained when he saw Dean.

"You're not washing out on me, are you?" Dean grinned, giving himself a light stroke to make his interest as obvious as possible. "After you teased me like that in the laundromat?"

"I wanted to have sex _then_ because…" Sam trailed off in the middle of the thought. Dean loved watching the emotions play across his face: tiredness to irritation to reluctant interest. "Okay, fine, but you're doing all the work."

"Done," Dean said promptly, pretending that that wasn't exactly what he was after all along. Some day Sam would catch on, probably, but not today.

Sam tossed the towel behind him into the bathroom and flopped into a face plant on the bed next to Dean, burying his face in the pillow as though he might get to sleep after all if he tried hard enough to shut out the room around him.

Ha. No chance of that happening, Dean thought fondly. He ran a hand from the nape of Sam's neck all the way down to one obnoxiously firm runner's buttock to start, then repeated the motion on the other side.

Sam, sensing the possibility of a massage, made encouraging moaning noises, but Dean really didn't have time to spend an hour working the knots from someone who spent way too much time hunched over books. Not if he didn't want to fall asleep in the middle of it himself.

He reached for the lube he'd thoughtfully set out earlier and went in. The nice thing about regular sex was that Sam didn't need much loosening. But the heat and slickness was heavenly, and in a couple minutes Dean was tugging Sam's knee up the bed, opening his position up so that one leg was folded alongside his torso while the other still lay out straight.

"Gonna get my cock in you now," he whispered in Sam's ear.

Sam always liked a little dirty talk. He whimpered.

"Let me...gonna take care of you, I promise," Dean whispered, and Sam reached blindly to clutch at Dean's hand where it rested on Sam's hip.

He slid in, and Sam shuddered in beautiful responsiveness. "Dean—gotta—yeah—" he said, not very coherently.

Dean loved getting him like this. "Ssh, I gotcha," he mumbled, and let his body do the talking.

It didn't matter if Sam had had to rescue Dean earlier, not when they were like this. Dean let the feeling of helplessness from earlier, when Sam was in danger and Dean couldn't get out of the ropes fast enough, wash away in the soft slide of their bodies together and the hum of the ancient AC. The sky was just barely beginning to lighten outside the window.

It was a new day, one more day that they were alive and strong and together. They could sleep in, hunt finished, before leaving town. On to the next hunt, and the one after that, until the world ended or they did.

"Not going to let anything happen to you," Dean muttered, indistinct enough he wasn't actually sure if Sam could understand him or not. "Ever."

"Me neither," Sam's voice came, surprisingly clearly. "Doofus."

Dean came pressing his face into Sam's back and laughing, reaching around to make sure Sam could finish too, managing a last few strokes to shove him over the edge.

Sam sighed in satisfaction and proceeded to flop back into a boneless puddle. "Mmm. Clean me up…?"

"So demanding," Dean mock-groaned, but after a minute he rolled off and headed to the bathroom. He still needed his turn in there anyway. "I suppose you want the washrag hot instead of cold, Mr. President?"

"It better be," Sam said, but sounded so close to sleep the words didn't have any power behind them.

Dean could probably whip up a college diploma in half an hour at the next Kinko's they were near. Most Likely To Save The World, it could say. Summa Cum Laude. Cum, heh. Definitely including that one. He pondered making it from the Winchester School of Hard Knocks or…

Whatever. Sam would love it. "One hot washrag, coming up," Dean muttered. Sam was all but out, and his own bed was looking more and more inviting by the second.

It had been a pretty good day, all things considered.

"On the road again," Dean sang softly. "Oh, I can't wait to get on the road again…"

**Author's Note:**

> The song Dean's singing is [On The Road Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dBN86y30Ufc) by Willie Nelson...not exactly rock, but I bet you he knew it.


End file.
